Night Fires
Night Fires
We gathered in smoke roomsspoke in loud voicesand hushed whisper asidesMusic was our universea collective endeavorthe blending of chord and discordthe madman shrieking and crooninglaughing at death when it entered the roomOpium wars sustain usThey are the philosophy of emperorsand the coinage of thieves
At three o’clock on a summer afternoonof his life, she came to himwith her hungry lips and sparkling eyesHis hands made circlesfound pleasure in the flaws of her fleshShe was the woman of his dansethe promised creature of his SeeTheir lives exploded on the mattressEcstasy is a mean judgmentin its power to diminishall other moments to little consequence
When the tiny bird flew from his handhis heart cried that it would goEven so, his Spirit thrilledat its magnificence a-wingin total acceptance of its freedomJoined by others of its kindthe tiny bird was lost to himin a cloud of feather dustThe cage of his owning, emptyhe set reverently on the trash heapstared sadly at his naked hands
The yardsticks of our livesare a measure what is lostOut ability to surviveis a matter of acceptancethe complicated courage requiredto simply learn to let goAll we have is what we don’tChildren of the Earth are weonly what we learn to beand choices, damned and blessedin a human maelstrom of choices
Each sinew of the womanthe excitement of her desireare an essence hard-wiredwelded to his super-consciousnessSpine tingling and nerve-wrackingthe brain bowl shuddersFingers and toes reach to holdHeat, heat, and losing his gripWhat if she doesn’t; what if she doesThe room is hazy, aflutterHe drops his mind on the floorNever mind she doesn’t because she does
Trains pounding down the railsare backbeats of centuriesuncertain and chaotic rhythmwhistles howling through the crossroadsgraffiti from Billings and Spokaneadorning iron packages, announcingWe got coal mountains, we gotCounting cars, one hundred and thirteenremembering the clang, drop stick downWhat if I just don’t stopcounting cars, one hundred and thirteen
We gathered ‘round the stone circleChildren running and chasingtrails of new breath on the chill nightawaiting the Keeper of the FlameGatherers filled the stone circlewith offerings from our Tree FriendsThe Keeper arrived with his magickThe Seer told us her storiesChildren laid their heads on our breastsThey slept and we made lovetending our night fires, awaiting dawn
© 2006 Tom (WordWulf) SternerHowe
We gathered in smoke roomsspoke in loud voicesand hushed whisper asidesMusic was our universea collective endeavorthe blending of chord and discordthe madman shrieking and crooninglaughing at death when it entered the roomOpium wars sustain usThey are the philosophy of emperorsand the coinage of thieves
At three o’clock on a summer afternoonof his life, she came to himwith her hungry lips and sparkling eyesHis hands made circlesfound pleasure in the flaws of her fleshShe was the woman of his dansethe promised creature of his SeeTheir lives exploded on the mattressEcstasy is a mean judgmentin its power to diminishall other moments to little consequence
When the tiny bird flew from his handhis heart cried that it would goEven so, his Spirit thrilledat its magnificence a-wingin total acceptance of its freedomJoined by others of its kindthe tiny bird was lost to himin a cloud of feather dustThe cage of his owning, emptyhe set reverently on the trash heapstared sadly at his naked hands
The yardsticks of our livesare a measure what is lostOut ability to surviveis a matter of acceptancethe complicated courage requiredto simply learn to let goAll we have is what we don’tChildren of the Earth are weonly what we learn to beand choices, damned and blessedin a human maelstrom of choices
Each sinew of the womanthe excitement of her desireare an essence hard-wiredwelded to his super-consciousnessSpine tingling and nerve-wrackingthe brain bowl shuddersFingers and toes reach to holdHeat, heat, and losing his gripWhat if she doesn’t; what if she doesThe room is hazy, aflutterHe drops his mind on the floorNever mind she doesn’t because she does
Trains pounding down the railsare backbeats of centuriesuncertain and chaotic rhythmwhistles howling through the crossroadsgraffiti from Billings and Spokaneadorning iron packages, announcingWe got coal mountains, we gotCounting cars, one hundred and thirteenremembering the clang, drop stick downWhat if I just don’t stopcounting cars, one hundred and thirteen
We gathered ‘round the stone circleChildren running and chasingtrails of new breath on the chill nightawaiting the Keeper of the FlameGatherers filled the stone circlewith offerings from our Tree FriendsThe Keeper arrived with his magickThe Seer told us her storiesChildren laid their heads on our breastsThey slept and we made lovetending our night fires, awaiting dawn
© 2006 Tom (WordWulf) SternerHowe
posted by WordWulf at 10:34 AM
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